Nothing Collapses
by StarSpray
Summary: Dor Firn-i-Guinar did not sink with the rest of Beleriand, and it is a place heavy with memory.


**B2MeM Prompt:** Daily: All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, / And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. -Walt Whitman, excerpt from "Song of Myself" ; Generator first line: CHARACTER tripped over a root and hissed a curse.  
**Format**: short story  
**Genre**: gen  
**Rating**: general  
**Warnings**: n/a  
**Characters**: Elrond  
**Pairings**: n/a  
**Summary**: Dor Firn-i-Guinar did not sink with the rest of Beleriand, and it is a place heavy with memory.

* * *

Elrond tripped over a root and hissed a curse, catching himself on the tree to which the root belonged. The forests in this part of Harlindon were thick and tangled, the sunlight that reached through the canopy tinged with green. Hemlock-umbels grew everywhere in clusters of white flowers. Where there was any open space, clusters of white and pale green niphredil thrived, waving and brushing against Elrond's legs as he passed through. They were joined by little golden elanor blooms, like tiny suns nestled in the deep shade of the trees.

This was a strange place. Elves had come here at the beginning of the Age, but had left quickly. Men refused to come near it at all, claiming it was haunted. Elrond had been intrigued from the start, but until now he had not had an opportunity to get away and investigate for himself. Now he was here, with a half-completed map of Lindon and the coast, and an older map of Beleriand. It was difficult to overlay the two in many places, since the coastline was so changed, and most of those who wandered the forest lands were not the same folk as those who were interested in making paper maps.

Elrond found a fallen tree that was big and still sturdy enough for him to spread out the maps, side by side. He was almost certain of where he was. The river had shrunk to a series of streams and creeks, but if he followed them…who knew what remained of Tol Galen?

Nearly all of it, as it turned out. The creeks and streams combined again before widening into a tidal river as they approached the coast. Elrond followed along the bank, listening to the gulls in the distance ahead and, nearer at hand, to the nightingales. There were other birds, too—robins and finches and jays and a few others—but nearly everywhere he turned there was nightingale song, or one sitting on a branch watching him. That was a little unnerving—maybe the birds were what were scaring folk away.

Then the forest opened up into a wide delta that spilled into the sea. And just off the coast, rising out of the rushing waters of the incoming tide, was a great green island, thickly forested. From where Elrond stood he could see a few silver streams flowing off of the isle into the sea. Birds flew back and forth from it and the mainland.

Elrond stood for a while just gazing at it. He hadn't expected to find anything like this. Not really. All of a sudden he missed Elros, wishing he were there as well. This was just the sort of adventure that Elros would have loved—and he would not have waited so long to come and find it.

He would also have not have waited until the low tide to make his way out to the island, instead crafting a raft or something, but Elrond was content to sit on the beach and rest until that evening, when the tide went back out and he could wade through shallow water to the island. As he did he caught a glimpse of something bright beneath the water, catching the last rays of the westering sun. He knelt to pick it up, and found himself holding a golden armband, set with emeralds in a pattern that resembled a leafy vine, and tiny red garnets as berries. Elrond stared at it for a few minutes, baffled, before putting it away to ponder later. He clambered up the steep embankment of the island, and glanced up to see Gil-Estel bright in the clear sky, and wondered—not for the first time—just how much of what he did his father could see.

There was no point in wandering the island at night, so Elrond made his camp by one of the clear little streams he had seen from the main shore. The water was sweet and cold and fresh, and the bed he made himself of ferns and grass was soft and fragrant. He dreamed of music, of piping echoing through a deep forest and of someone singing, someone he almost thought that he knew.

The next morning dawned clear and bright, and with a burst of birdsong. Elrond woke feeling refreshed and rested, and ready to see what else remained on the island. He shouldered his pack and passed through the trees, beneath towering beeches and through stands of white-barked birch, and through oak and maple and chestnut, stopping briefly to gather some chestnuts that had fallen already. Niphredil grew thicker than grass or moss here, and the whole island was filled with sweet fragrance that mingled with the wind off the sea.

Eventually he came to a wide clearing with a tall hill at one end, where a shining waterfall plunged into a clear pool, the sound echoing off of the trees all around. Elrond's breath caught at the sight. A rainbow shimmered in the mist that drifted up from the fall's base. "Lanthir Lamath," he breathed. All around him the trees and grasses rustled, like whispers passing through the clearing. That weighty feeling was stronger here, that feeling that made others call this region haunted. Elrond knew it for what it was: memory. The land and the forest and the water remembered Lúthien, and Beren, and perhaps Nimloth and Dior and their children too. And they recognized them in Elrond, and the whispers in the leaves were of welcome.

He had half expected to find houses still standing, but all that remained of them were the stone foundations and bits of walls, covered with moss and lichen and half-covered with a thick bramble of blackberries, heavy with fruit. Elrond picked the berries leisurely as he explored, staining his fingers purple-pink and imagining their tamer ancestors, picked by his grandfather, perhaps. Perhaps made into jams or preserves by his grandmother or by Lúthien herself. One did not usually imagine domesticity when thinking of Beren and Lúthien, but that was what they had wanted and found, here by the waterfall of Lanthir Lamath with its constant music, and the stars overhead and the trees all around.

In all, Elrond spent the better part of a month in Dor Firn-i-Guinar. He explored the island thoroughly, and discovered a few bits of pottery by the houses, and a few glass beads and bits of metal that had once been parts of tools or blades. He took a few of the beads with him and one of the bowls, wrapping it up carefully in a spare shirt. Elros would have laughed at him—Elrond had insisted he take all of the important heirlooms, like Aranrúth and the Ring of Barahir and all the others, and here Elrond was claiming a simple bowl of river clay. But Elros was a king and those heirlooms were kingly things. Elrond was not a king and had no wish to be. He thought that he understood perfectly why Beren and Lúthien had left Doriath and come down to Ossiriand, to this island, far away from wars and troubles and heroics. And here they had stayed, until _they passed away in the forest, singing sorrowless_, as the songs said.

The last day he spent on the island, it rained. Not hard, but enough for Elrond to unpack the canvas to give himself some shelter. He set it up in some short trees by the pool under Lanthir Lamath, and watched the raindrops on the water while he played aimlessly on his harp. If he half-closed his eyes he could imagine Lúthien dancing in the rain and hear the echo of laughter in the fall of the water. And when he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and the clouds had parted to reveal the stars. Gil-Estel again shone brighter than the rest, like the Silmaril was remembering too.


End file.
